girl flirting and making first move

Why Girls Should Make The First Move, From A Guy’s Perspective

Today’s guest post comes from a good friend, St. Listen to his song below and follow him on Soundcloud. Read his previous article for my website here.

While laying next to her, I’m many things. I’m nervous. I’m shy. I’m horny. I’m afraid. I’m not her boyfriend.

I don’t know what she is. I don’t know how she’s feeling. I barely know who she is. Hours ago, we were strangers. There’s only a few things I can tell about her. Her heart’s racing, is she nervous? Is she afraid? Her head lays against the recently washed pillow case, with hands folded over her stomach, fingers intertwined as she stares at my ceiling with her legs crossed.

She lays as if she is occupying the stereotypical sofa in a therapist’s office. I’m laying on her left, also facing up. We’re not looking at each other, just at the ceiling, as if we’re watching a projector playing a silent movie as we talk to it.

The words she utters aren’t transferred directly to me. They float straight up like a hot air balloon, cross the ocean masked as the inches between us, and land onto me, softly, gently as if the balloon deployed its own parachute. She speaks calmly, expressing her thoughts about the small things, things that neither of us care for at this moment… dreams, families, experiences… I mean we do care, but it’s not a priority right now. Right now those topics are simply a barrier, our last human defenses against our animal desire to sex.

Maybe I’m just reading her wrong. Maybe those are only my desires. Is this what she really wants? I could ask, but holy shit, I’d feel stupid. Or I could just assume. I could reach over and place my hand on her exposed naval, and pull her close to me, while sliding my hand further up towards her breasts. My left hand motions to complete what right now feels like a Herculean sized task.

My hand only makes it halfway, changing the purpose of the motion to appear as if I wanted scratch my nose. My hand retreats back to it’s original position like a cat scared by a passing car. She doesn’t seem to notice. That’s strange because it’s my only focus.

How can two people, who are so close physically, be completely ignorant of the motions occurring inches away?

I’m even more nervous now, judging my own body’s automatic movements with an evil eye. Why the fuck is my breathing becoming faster and my chest booming at an increasingly faster rate? She lays calmly in that same position she started in. Now I’m wondering, are we even on the same page? Is she really feeling this situation right now? She hasn’t motioned once toward me, her breathing hasn’t changed, and neither has her focus on the ceiling.

Should I even make the move? Will she think I’m too forward? What if she had a bad experience before? Was she ever sexually abused? Was she… raped? If I make the move, will I trigger those memories of hurt, pain, and betrayal? Should I ask? That’s too awkward. Ask yourself: Would you ask that? What if she thinks I’m a… rapist? No, she can’t think that. She agreed to come with me and we made it all the way here. And she’s still here. In my bed. Willingly.

I mean, she’s not running away. She seems content. I wish she could unlock her intertwined fingers, turn towards me, and place her soft hands anywhere on me; on my cheek, on my chest, and the one I’m truly hoping for, on my belt buckle to help me free this tension.

I wish she could read my thoughts. I don’t want to scare her. I don’t want to be too forward and move too quickly. I just want to embrace her.

My mind is filled to the brim with flashing images, similar to a flip book, in which my hand slides down the arch of her back, penetrating the waistband of her leggings, and outlining the curves of her ass cheeks. I feel myself to be like a poet who can’t express his true emotion, frustrated at my lack of vocabulary. If this was a game show, I’d have to use a lifeline.

I just want her to turn to me and let me know what to do. How do I know what she truly wants? Why can’t she make the first move? Why do I have to? Why am I expected to lead, and for her to follow or turn me away? Am I afraid of rejection? Am I, as my boys so gracefully say it, a pussy?

As I think about this thesis, the question in my mind grows. Why is it so rare for women to make that first move? I’m starting to think they should. It doesn’t have to be the first move when meeting each other, just that first move to initiate intimacy. It would save so much time. Instead of being trapped in my head, wondering, pondering, and creating fictional “What if” narratives, we would simply get to the point. She’d (and probably everyone else I’ve been with) make me feel more comfortable. She’d be director and me, the lead actor in her Hollywood role. She’d instill the confidence I need and in return get what she truly craves. I can’t possibly know what she wants.

She’s inviting me inside her home, she might as well give me the tour. I don’t mind being a tourist as long as she’s my tour guide. The situation would become ten times more erotic. I can lose control, forfeit in these pillow wars.

Honestly, I’m sick of having to do all the work, putting in all that energy to satisfy both parties. Why can’t she just grab my dick, hop on top and ride me off into the sunset? That’s the Hollywood happy ending I’m looking for. Let her be Superman and I’ll be Lois Lane. She can save me. Make it exciting. Make it unexpected. Now, I look back at her thinking “Show me something I haven’t witnessed before. Throw everything that’s expected of you out the window and use your body to express your true feelings.” We’re laying in the dark, hidden in the bedroom shadows. She continues to stare at the ceiling ignorant of the case I just defended against the jury in my mind. I wait as if the thoughts will somehow transfer into her mind.

The expectation begins to turn into disappointment. The patience grows into impatience. Then into frustration with no external expression. I continue to wear my mask, pretending to listen.  She doesn’t know and she doesn’t care. Will she even ask? I doubt it.

I turn to the right, laying on my shoulder, staring at her. My face remains blank. She glances over. Right away, she can read me. She knows something’s changed. The smile she wore previously, now turns into concern as she asks “What’s wrong?”